(I work in a very popular chocolate shop that also sells ice cream in the summer. It is a particularly busy, hot Saturday. I am serving ice cream. There was a huge line of customers. Suddenly, a customer strolls into the store, leaving her bicycle outside. Eventually, it is her turn.)

Customer: “Finally. I’ll have a hazelnut.”

Me: “Sure, a double or a single?”

Customer: “Double.”

Me: “Would you like it in a cone or a tub?”

Customer: “A bag.”

Me: “…Pardon?”

Customer: “A bag.”

(I look at her for a moment)

Me: “I’m sorry, Miss, but the ice cream only comes in a cone or a tub.”

Customer: “Well, I need it in a bag. Do you have a bag?”

(We put chocolate in small transparent bags, but they would definitely not fit an ice cream tub, also there are no lids on the tubs to cover the ice cream.)

Me: “It won’t fit in one of our bags, miss.”

Customer: “Yes, it will. Get one.”

(I protest again, but fetch her bag anyway. I present it to her and show her the size, to prove it won’t fit.)

Me: “See, Miss? It’s too small. The tub won’t fit in there.”

Customer: “Oh, honestly, how do you even have a job? Do you even have a brain?”

(I’m hurt by this comment, and am getting quite angry.)

Me: “Look, it won’t fit; I don’t know what you’d like me to do.”

Customer: “Let me do it, girl.”

(She proceeds to take the full-to-the-brim ice cream tub and squeeze it into the bag sideways, smearing her ice cream all down the sides. I stare at her in disbelief. Ice cream is dripping everywhere.)

Customer: “Was that so hard?”

Me:*still staring* “Would… you like a spoon?”

(She held out the open bag and I dropped in a small plastic spoon with the already nearly melted ice cream. She paid and left. I watched her outside the window as she put her bag of squished ice cream into the child-seat of her bicycle, STRAPPED UP THE SEAT BELT, and cycled away down the road. I stared in disbelief for the rest of the day.)

(I work in a small-scale electronics store and am the only female sales associate in the place. We get paid largely on commission, and specialize in cellular phones. I helped a gentleman in his 50s set up his phone plan.)

Me: “Well, sir, your plan is almost ready to go. Now I just need some information on who the other phone line is for and we’ll be all set.”

Customer:*winks creepily* “The other phone is for my son. Good looking kid in his twenties going to law school. You’re a smart girl; save his number and give him a call. You’d be well taken care of.”

Me:*laughs awkwardly* “I will keep that in mind, sir. In the mean time, let’s get your phone plan taken care of so you can be on your way.”

Customer:*frantically dials his new phone* “Robert?! It’s Dad. Come to the [Store] right now! There is a girl here you should meet.” *pauses for son’s response* I’d say a six. Hard eight if she put in a little effort.”

(One evening a very obviously young teenager (15 or 16) comes in and tries to buy a pornographic magazine. After I inform him I can’t sell to him without seeing an ID he sticks around and starts chatting me up. I am a very tall woman in my mid-twenties while he was very short and petite.)

Kid: “You know, the main reason I wanted to buy a magazine is because I’ve been deprived of the company of women for most of my life. You see…” *he leans up against the counter, looks around the room and says in a stage whisper* “…I was trained from birth in a Russian compound to be a deadly assassin.”

Me:*trying not to laugh* “Go on…”

Kid: “I’m the best there is at the trade. I became the youngest secret KGB agent.”

Me: “The KGB actually hasn’t existed for several years now.”

Kid:*nodding gravely* “That’s because I took them all out when I went rogue. Since then I’ve been freelancing. But now that I have more money than I know what to do with, I’ve been thinking about getting out of the game. You know, finding a beautiful woman and settling down in my French chateau. What do you say? Want me to take you away from all this?”

Me:*having serious trouble keeping a straight face* “That’s very sweet. But aren’t I a little too old for you? Not to mention I’m nearly two feet taller.”

Kid: “That’s okay. That’s the way we like ’em in Russia!”

Me: “Kid, you are one cocky little s***. If you weren’t underage I’d buy you a drink.”

Kid: “Well, if you come with me we can go to a country where the legal drinking age is much lower. You know, in Russia I’ve already reached the age of consent. If you get my drift…”

(She gets a look of horror on her face and quickly walks away. I attempt to call to her but she ignores me. A couple minutes she comes back with a manager in tow.)

Customer: “This is the girl! This is the devil worshiper you need to fire!”

(Both my manager and I exchange a confused look.)

Manager: “What exactly is your problem with her, ma’am?”

Customer: “She wears a symbol of Satan! She’s a minion of Lucifer!”

(This is when I remember the star symbol earring I am wearing.)

Me: “Ma’am, this earring is not a symbol of Satan. It’s just a star. You’d have to flip it a full 180 degrees to be the symbol you’re referring to.”

Customer: “No! It’s a sign of the devil! You’re a devil worshiper!”

(My manager and I tried to explain to her the difference between the well-known satanic pentagram and my simple star symbol but she won’t listen. The manager escorted her away from my section and I removed my earring for the rest of my shift.)

(It’s my third night of waiting tables at a restaurant. The weather is really nice so we open up the patio area for seating. I seat two couples, one significantly older than the other. The women both place their purses in the middle of the aisle so that they virtually trip every server coming through the patio.)

Me: “Ma’am, I’m so sorry but could you move your purses? We need to get through this area safely and I would hate to spill or drop anything on you!”

(They both glare daggers but move their purses without a single word to me. Later on, I seat a couple next to the first table, a white woman and a black man. All goes well until I’m dropping off drinks for them and I hear this from the next table.)

Younger Woman: “I can’t believe a girl that pretty would be with someone like HIM. Ew.”

Older Woman: “I know. Your father and I would’ve died if you brought home that type of man.

(They all laugh derisively. I HOPE I’m thinking the wrong thing. But when I return they are shooting dirty looks at the interracial couple, who have been nothing but model customers.)

Me:*to the interracial couple* “Is everything all right here?”

(I notice the lady is looking VERY upset.)

Man: “They were looking at us funny the entire time. When I went to the car to get something I forgot, they said something about how I must’ve stolen it.”

(I look at where he’s pointing and it’s a shiny black BMW.)

Me: “Oh… hmm. I’ll be right back.”

(I pop inside to explain what’s happened to my manager, and ask whether I can comp the interracial couple a free dessert taken out of my tips. My manager agrees readily.)

Me: “Here’s a dessert on me, guys.”

(The entire table next to me turns and GLARES. I smile sweetly and walk back inside. Of course I earned no tip from the racist table, but the humongous tip I got from the interracial couple more than made up for it.)